


Homecoming

by M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Artist Merlin, F/M, Gen, Immortal Merlin, Merlin misses Arthur, Post-Finale, Reincarnation, So do I, i cried, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-11-18 07:32:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11286597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng/pseuds/M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng
Summary: Arthur and his girlfriend Gwen examine a painting that could have been the two of them in another life and debate how to describe it. Poignant, adjective: evoking a keen sense of sadness or regret; from the Latin verb meaning "to prick or sting."





	1. If Wishes Were Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, its characters, settings, or events; all rights belong to their respective creators.
> 
> Author Note: Posting this first chapter on its own because it can be read as a one-shot; I am working on a continuation that I will begin posting once I get closer to completion.

“Ah, here it is!”

Arthur loved his girlfriend, he really did. And he appreciated beauty as much as the next guy; case in point, his girlfriend. But honestly, traipsing around some museum in search of that one particular painting she had seen while here with one of her classes from the college was not his idea of a great way to spend the one Saturday his dad had actually allowed him to take some time away from the company, no matter how “breathtaking,” “beautiful,” or “poignant” Guinevere thought it was. 

So as happy as he was to spend time with Guinevere anywhere, doing anything, he couldn’t see why he should be expected to get excited about anything in this museum except Guinevere. Certainly not a “poignant” painting from some guy whose name he probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce from hundreds of years ago. What exactly did “poignant” even mean?

But as he looked at this particular painting, he found that it was actually breathtaking. And he didn’t know as much about art as Gwen did—composition and palettes and tone and whatnot—but there was something about the picture that was beautiful, something that just felt perfect about it or alive somehow, and not just because the two figures that were the focus could have been himself and Guinevere in another life.

The woman was dark-skinned and short, dark curly hair falling around her face and hiding it where it was buried in the shoulder of her knight. The knight’s face was equally hidden, buried in turn into the woman’s shoulder on the other side, but his lighter skin and height matched Arthur’s and the hair that peeked out from behind the woman’s head—though just as caked with filth and blood as the silver chainmail and armor and blood red cloak—was clearly the same shade of bright gold.

They were embracing against a dark background with the edges of what was probably a castle just barely sketched into it, as though they were alone in their own little world with just each other. They leaned on each other, in that embrace, with a sort of desperation and raw intensity that made Arthur think— _know_ —that this was more than just any embrace; if he had to guess, judging from the filth on the knight’s armor and cloak and the mottled red and white of a bandage peeking through a hole in his chainmail on his nearer side, the knight had just returned from a battle when neither had been sure he would.

Looking at them, Arthur felt an echo of what they must be feeling: the love, the relief, the joy, the weariness, the reassurance and comfort of finally being in each other’s arms—and he pulled his Guinevere close and kissed her hair, glad to have her in his arms, in this moment as always. Maybe that was “poignant”?

She giggled and pulled away a bit to look up at him. “It does remind you of us, doesn’t it?” He agreed and she smacked him lightly in the chest with a grin. “I told you it would. Isn’t it just gorgeous?” He nodded again and listened as she explained what she saw in it from her artistic perception: the balance of colors, with the two figures wrapped in bright reds and golds and silvers touched by light while the background was shrouded in a mix of darker colors, and the two similar but distinct shades of red that made up the lady’s dress and the knight’s cloak signifying that they are still individuals within their union; how the light and dark played on the emotions of the scene, bringing out the joy of the reunion, but also the sadness.

“Sadness?” Arthur asked.

“Don’t you feel it?” Now that she mentioned it, there was something a little sad about it; not necessarily for the two in the painting, but maybe like the painter was sad? Or maybe nostalgic? Or . . . “’Melancholy’ might be a better word, I suppose,” Gwen put in. Yes, that was it; trust Guinevere to know the right thing to say, even about a painting.

Still, he couldn’t help but tease her. “I thought it was ‘poignant.’”

She smacked him on the chest again and smiled, but she made an agreeing noise. “’Poignant’ is definitely the right word for the title.” With that she gestured to the plaque mounted beside the painting and Arthur stepped closer to read it.

“Title: _If He’d Come Home_ , subtitled _Camlann_. Painted by little known artist M.E. Balinor _c._ 1832.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it isn’t clear enough, the painting was done by Merlin, who imagined what the reunion would have been like if he’d been able to bring Arthur home after Camlann. I like the idea of Merlin using his father’s name as a surname sometimes.


	2. Closed Doors, Opened Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own _Merlin_ , its characters, settings, or events; all rights belong to their respective creators.

_"A wise man will make more opportunities than he finds." – Francis Bacon_

* * *

Arthur had never considered himself a romantic person, and he knew for a fact his girlfriend held the same opinion. He'd never been great at picking out gifts of any kind, let alone "thoughtful" ones (Guinevere always said it didn't matter what he got her as long as it had "meaning"), and he didn't know that he'd ever actually remembered an anniversary of any sort on his own.

But this year was different.

Because this year his girlfriend had dragged him to a museum to show him a painting that she loved and had called it "poignant," which Arthur figured was close enough to "thoughtful" to count, and a painting of people that could be them had to have meaning, especially when she'd gushed over it and used a lot of adjectives that basically meant that it had meaning.

This was his chance to get Guinevere a thoughtful, meaningful, romantic gift for once.

And he had a vague idea that they had some sort of anniversary coming up sometime soon, too, so the timing was perfect.

All he had to do was track down the owner of the painting and convince him to sell it, which Arthur should have had no problem with, and figure out when exactly their upcoming anniversary was without letting on to Guinevere that he was getting her something special this year.

His family influence and wealth got him the address of the owner, but all the museum had had for a name was "the Balinor Estate." Still, it shouldn't be hard to go to the address, find the owner of the Balinor Estate, and use the many persuasive means at his disposal (mainly money and charm) to convince them to sell.

He hit a snag much earlier in his plan than he expected.

Driving out to the address he'd been given—a little cottage on the heavily wooded shore of a lake—was the only easy part.

The door was answered by an old man with a hunched back and long white hair and beard and a deep scowl that quickly melted into open-mouthed surprise when he saw Arthur on his doorstep.

For a long moment, Arthur shifted uncertainly under the old man's wordless stare, before finally asking, "Are you the owner of the Balinor Estate?"

And with a choked growl, the old man promptly slammed the door in his face.

Arthur's own mouth fell open as he blinked in surprise in an unintentional imitation of the old man, then snapped shut as his anger rose over any other emotion. He pounded heavily on the door.

He waited an unreasonably long time for something to happen and was about to pound on the door again when it was suddenly flung open by a much younger man, probably a bit younger than Arthur even, with dark hair and big ears and an idiot's grin that didn't change at all, even as he took in Arthur's obvious irritation.

This time Arthur didn't wait. "I'm looking for the owner of the Balinor Estate," he said firmly, in his most commanding voice; if that voice could get all the grey old men on the board of his dad's company to listen to him in spite of his age, it would definitely get a scrawny boy to give him the answers he was looking for.

It didn't.

"What for?" the boy asked with a puzzled frown, head tilting to one side.

"I don't know why I should tell _you_ ," Arthur bit out. Then he added mockingly, "Are _you_ the owner of the Balinor Estate?"

"Kind of," the boy answered with a shrug.

"That's a 'no,' then," Arthur decided. The boy shrugged again. "Is it the old man that answered the first time then?" The boy seemed a little unsure how to answer that, confused maybe, so Arthur explained, "I was given this address at the museum, but I don't know who I'm looking for."

The boy nodded seriously, considering Arthur for a moment.

Then he shut the door in Arthur's face.

Arthur had just worked past his shock and pounded on the door again when the door finally creaked slowly open; it was the old man, this time, scowling again.

Arthur waited a moment for the man to speak, hoping he would explain why everyone in this house had a need to slam doors in people's faces for no apparent reason or that he would maybe even answer Arthur's question finally. But since the people in this house had no manners whatsoever, he, of course, did neither. Instead, when he finally spoke, all Arthur got was an impatient "Well?"

Arthur fought a sudden urge to slam his head into the door frame repeatedly, every scrap of patience he had ever possessed snapping completely. Carefully enunciating each word, he finally asked, for the third time, "Are you the owner of the Balinor Estate?"

The old man didn't visibly react to Arthur's tone, but shot out "Might be" in the same waspish tone.

Arthur took a moment to breathe deeply. Very deeply. In and hold and out.

Then he answered. Calmly. Mostly.

"I'm looking to buy a painting."

"Painting?" the old man asked sharply.

"Yes," Arthur said rather forcefully. It would be wrong to shake an old man just because he was the most irritating old man in existence, wouldn't it? Like, morally, or something?

"What painting?"

There was nobody in sight, Arthur had checked; nobody would ever have to know if he shook the old grouch just a little.

_Breathe, Arthur._

"It's called _If He'd Come Home_." The old man drew in a sharp breath and fixed an equally sharp gaze on Arthur's face. Arthur continued, "You've got it displayed in the museum downtown."

When the old man finally answered, he spoke more slowly than he had since answering the door the first time. "That's a special painting."

Arthur was finally satisfied that the old man was actually giving the conversation due consideration, and his tone mellowed accordingly as he acknowledged, "It is." Then he added, "It's very special to my girlfriend and I."

"Girlfriend?" Well, now the old man just sounded nosy and downright gossipy, as if he'd suddenly transformed into a teenage girl.

"Yes," Arthur answered warily, "my girlfriend. I'd like to give the painting to her as an anniversary gift."

The old man snorted suddenly, then turned it into a cough; Arthur frowned, not at all fooled, but not sure why the old man was laughing at him. He could feel his frustration rising again, and the old man apparently caught on because he politely cleared his throat.

"You want to give it to your girlfriend?" he asked. "Well, then. I'd better meet this girlfriend." He nodded and hummed to himself; Arthur's frown deepened.

"What?"

"Like I said, special painting," the old man answered, then added with a wheezy little laugh at some joke Arthur wasn't aware of, "Let's hope she's a special lady, eh?"

And then he shut the door in Arthur's face.

* * *

When a knock sounded on his door late in the afternoon, Merlin sighed. Most visitors to his little cottage by the shores of the lake of Avalon fell into three categories, none of which he enjoyed dealing with. First, there were the local boys who teased each other with the old story that an immortal man lived there who maintained his extended lifespan by eating people, mostly children, and dared one another to knock on his door; this superstition had worried him at first, but he found that the children soon grew into adults who laughed it off as impossible. Second, there were door-to-door salesman, who, he had long ago discovered, could find and reach any residence regardless of obstacles; luckily, these visits had died down with the invention of the telephone. Third, there were the religious visitors, mostly Mormons; he'd seen so much trouble stemming from religious beliefs reaching the fanatical over the years that he was always wary lest any of them should decide to start burning people for witchcraft again, no matter how polite and friendly they were, and often sent them away quite rudely and a little guiltily. He had found that, whichever of these visitors came to his door, his best defense was his guise of a possibly crazy and/or senile old man who may or may not be incredibly deaf and was most definitely quite rude, so he hastily muttered the spell and scowled fiercely.

Then he opened the door.

It was Arthur.

In the blink of an eye, he forgot everything because _it was Arthur_.

It was Arthur standing on his doorstep with the late afternoon sun on his hair like a fiery golden crown.

Arthur, exactly as he remembered him, but for the clothing.

It was Arthur, alive and well, but something was wrong. There was something missing from his eyes that Merlin couldn't quite put his finger on, something about the set of his smile that was a bit too formal for Merlin's comfort. He was starting to look a bit peeved at Merlin's scrutiny, which was definitely familiar, but still . . .

"Are you the owner of the Balinor Estate?" Arthur asked in a politely distant voice, and Merlin choked on the realization of what was missing.

It was Arthur, but he didn't know who Merlin was.

Suddenly, Merlin found himself falling against the inside of his now-closed door, sliding down to the floor and riding out the overwhelming wave of emotions with fingers clenched in his white hair so tightly they nearly matched it in color. Joy and hope and crushing loss and defeat and mourning and rage at the world and terror and despair and so many more that he couldn't even begin to name crashed into him almost tangibly.

A heavy pounding on the door physically shook him and jarred him from his daze.

_That was Arthur,_ he registered distantly.

Then, _I should open the door._

But he didn't.

He couldn't.

Just now, he found he couldn't even move.

_Come on, Merlin,_ he told himself, _it's Arthur. What's your problem? What are you afraid of?_

The answer to both questions, of course, was summed up perfectly in those same two words: _it's Arthur._

Arthur who didn't seem to recognize him, who didn't remember. That was the reason he felt like he'd just lost Arthur all over again, the reason he felt a little like maybe he'd lived this long for nothing, the reason he was so angry at the world and destiny right now, because _why_? Why would they bring him back without his memories? Would he ever get them back, or was Merlin doomed to live a shadow existence alongside his other half once more?

He had spent every day since his king had died in his arms waiting—longing, hoping, praying, crying, begging, living, _waiting_ —for his return. He had tried to prepare himself for every possibility, had even considered this one more than once, but that didn't make this any easier.

Because Arthur was standing on his front doorstep, but he still hadn't gotten his beloved friend and king back.

Oh, yeah. Arthur was standing on his doorstep.

And Merlin had slammed the door in his face.

Knowing Arthur, he was probably pretty angry about that.

He should open the door and see what he wanted.

But first, he couldn't help changing into his younger, more familiar form and the clothing that went with it, glad he'd learned how to make the transformation easier and faster centuries ago; he told himself not to hope, but he couldn't help it: Arthur was more likely to remember this form than the other. If he remembered at all, that is; what a depressing thought.

But even if it did nothing for Arthur, Merlin would feel better dealing with this as himself: on the other side of that door, his destiny stood once more, and Merlin knew his life would change again the moment he started down that path, wherever it led.

All it would take was opening that door.

So he took a deep breath—preparing for the worst, but hoping for the best—and opened the door on whatever the rest of this lifetime would be before he could change his mind.

Arthur looked incredibly irritated, but he couldn't find it in himself to be bothered because that was just so _Arthur_. Even for the second time, the sight of him standing there stole his breath for a moment.

"I'm looking for the owner of the Balinor Estate," Arthur said immediately in what Merlin used to call his "king voice."

Merlin frowned in confusion. The "Balinor Estate" was the name he used for his banking and property ownership things, so that he could maintain his funds and properties through the ages without anyone questioning his identity; he went through the charade of "inheriting" it from himself every few decades, but it had been a while since the last time. How exactly had Arthur come across that and why did it bring him here? He was suddenly a little worried that Arthur worked for the government and had found something suspicious about the estate. It would be just like Arthur to get all observant only when it would be most inconvenient for Merlin, but on the other hand, Arthur didn't look suspicious, just frustrated and determined. Why would he be looking for the owner of the Balinor Estate then?

"What for?" he asked, tipping his head.

"I don't know why I should tell _you_ ," Arthur bit out. "Are _you_ the owner of the Balinor Estate?" Well, not having his memories hadn't changed him _that_ much then; he was still capable of being a complete prat when he wanted to be, Merlin noted.

But Merlin was still faced with a bit of a quandary over how to answer that particular question. Not only was Merlin not entirely sure how to answer the question of "the owner of the Balinor Estate", as he hadn't actually "inherited" it from his older identity yet, but he also felt the old need to stand up to Arthur when he was being a prat rising up in him—plus, how dare Arthur show up on his doorstep out of the blue like this with no memories and _still_ be a complete prat? On the other hand, he didn't want to drive Arthur off without knowing how to find him again. "Kind of," he settled on, with a nonchalant shrug thrown in for good measure.

"That's a 'no,' then," Arthur said; he sounded really certain and Merlin knew immediately that he wasn't going to change the former king's mind now that he'd made it up, so instead he simply shrugged again. "Is it the old man that answered the door the first time then?" Arthur asked. For a moment, Merlin was stumped as to how exactly he was supposed to answer this second question now, reluctant as he was to have to lie to his king again, then Arthur said, "I was given this address at the museum, but I don't know who I'm looking for."

Merlin nodded as an idea formed in his head: since Arthur seemed as determined as ever to think of this form as an idiot, and since he was convinced that the old man who had first answered the door must be the owner of the Balinor Estate, it'd probably just be easier for both of them if Merlin shifted into his older form again to talk to Arthur; Arthur would be satisfied that he was talking to the right person and Merlin wouldn't really have to lie. At least not outright. Or verbally, anyway. For now. Anyway, he shut the door and went about changing his appearance and clothing back to the way they'd been the first time he opened the door for Arthur.

Arthur, of course, had no more patience than he'd ever had and soon pounded on the door again; Merlin shook his head fondly and was tempted to slow down just to be irritating, but decided that he had lived too long to be so decidedly childish and run the risk of losing Arthur again.

When he was good and ready, both physically and emotionally prepared, he braced himself again and opened the door.

Only to realize immediately that he'd completely lost track of what he should and shouldn't know between his two quick changes and had no idea how to "start" this conversation.

Merlin waited for Arthur to speak first, but unfortunately, Arthur also seemed reluctant to speak, in spite of his obviously growing impatience; for a long moment, they simply scowled at each other. "Well?" Merlin finally prompted.

Arthur's jaw clenched and Merlin could see all the familiar signs that he was restraining himself from some kind of violent action. When he finally spoke, each word was carefully pronounced through a stiff jaw and mostly clenched teeth, "Are you the owner of the Balinor Estate?"

Merlin fought simultaneous urges to roll his eyes in exasperation at the former king's childish behavior and giggle hysterically at how little Arthur had changed; instead, he measured Arthur's temperament and decided on a testy response of "Might be."

If Arthur was as much like his previous self as he had so far seemed to be, then he would take something as confrontational as that as a personal challenge and would be more determined than ever to follow through on his goal, whatever that was, which meant Merlin had the opportunity to ensure Arthur stuck around longer. Plus, he had to admit that verbal sparring had always been more fun for him when Arthur was on the other side of it and he had dearly missed their interactions in the past centuries.

As expected, Arthur's chin came up and his feet planted more firmly as soon as Merlin spoke, and Merlin almost grinned to see him taking deliberately deep breaths as he prepared for battle, so to speak; he had absolutely no intention of walking away until he was satisfied. Merlin himself took a deep breath in relief.

"I'm looking to buy a painting," Arthur said, in his forced-calm voice.

"Painting?" Merlin asked.

"Yes," Arthur nearly growled, looking even closer to violence than before. Merlin hadn't intended that question to be provocative, but Arthur was clearly too angry already to realize that Merlin was merely asking for clarification.

"What painting?" he tried again.

Arthur struggled with his anger a moment longer, trying to moderate the violent urges Merlin could still see in his eyes, but finally gave the specification Merlin had been looking for.

"It's called _If He'd Come Home_ ," Arthur said, and Merlin couldn't help his sharp intake of air at the name. Did Arthur know or suspect that it was him and Gwen in the painting? Were his memories closer to the surface than Merlin had feared? Did he have an idea what exactly the painting was a reference to?

Arthur continued on, something about where the painting was displayed, but Merlin wasn't really listening as he studied his friend for clues as to his interest in the painting and dealt with the tangle of emotions that came with the painting itself and with the idea of Arthur discovering it.

The scene depicted was a happy one, but the fact that it had never actually happened was so sad; he'd loved the subjects with all his heart—he still did—but he hated that they'd died and left him alone, even as he knew it wasn't their choice. That painting brought up his loneliness and sorrow, as so many of his other paintings did, but also brought up the two-fold guilt of having failed both Arthur and Gwen so completely in one fell stroke. It brought up every dream he'd ever had of the future in those days when Arthur was king, with all their hope, and it brought up the despair that Arthur had never lived to see their destiny completed. When he'd loaned that painting to the first museum, ages ago, he'd had a number of reasons: it was too painful to keep around, but too precious to get rid of; he'd wanted to share the truths of the story that had by then become barely-recognizable legends, in whatever small ways he could; and, yes, he'd half-hoped that somehow, somewhere a reborn Arthur would see it and find him. But he'd given up that hope long ago—mostly—and the fact that it was that painting that had brought Arthur to his doorstep now filled him not only with wonder and hope that Arthur's memories may yet return to him—maybe someday soon— but also with sadness that that was the first part of his first life that this Arthur had stumbled on to.

"That's a special painting," Merlin finally said, slowly, carefully.

"It is," Arthur said. "It's very special to my girlfriend and I."

"Girlfriend?" Merlin couldn't help asking, even though he knew his interest was bleeding through and now Arthur was looking at him like he wanted very badly to call him a girl. He had tried to stop himself from hoping over the centuries for the return of anybody other than Arthur and if it was Gwen that Arthur was talking about, this was truly a gift; he could barely contain his excited interest to that single one-word question. He wanted to ask so many: Was it her? Had she really come back too? How long had they been dating? How long had they known each other? Was Arthur planning to marry her in this life too? What did his father think of her this time?

"Yes, my girlfriend," Arthur answered slowly, squinting in suspicion; Merlin stowed his questions for another time. "I'd like to give the painting to her as an anniversary gift."

Merlin snorted before he could stop himself. _Arthur_ had remembered an anniversary? And had actually put effort in to seek out a gift? A big gift, even. All on his own. Arthur was still glaring at him, even though he'd tried to hide his laughter in a cough, but Merlin was having trouble stopping after such a whirlwind of emotions as this conversation had provided. Until a sudden thought brought him up short: what if the girlfriend Arthur was putting so much effort into _wasn't_ Gwen?

He cleared his throat as politely as he could manage and asked, "You want to give it to your girlfriend?" It wouldn't do at all for Arthur to give a painting of him and Gwen to another girl, and an idea struck him. "Well, then," he decided. "I'd better meet this girlfriend." This way, if it were Gwen, he'd get to meet her too; and if it weren't, then he could send her packing without the painting—and determine if she deserved Arthur at the same time. Plus, Arthur would have to come back. Yes, better all around that Merlin meet the girlfriend.

Arthur didn't seem to think so. "What?" he asked with an incredulous frown.

"Like I said, special painting," Merlin answered. He laughed a bit breathlessly at that; _very_ special, to have brought Arthur back to him, and maybe Gwen, too. It had better be Gwen. "Let's hope she's a special lady, eh?" Then he shut the door in Arthur's face, content knowing that he'd opened a door into Arthur's life that wouldn't be nearly so easy to close. He wouldn't let it.

* * *

_"My life closed twice before its close;_

_It yet remains to see_

_If Immortality unveil_

_A third event to me_

_"So huge, so hopeless to conceive_

_As these that twice befell._

_Parting is all we know of Heaven_

_And all we need of Hell."_

 

-"My life closed twice before its close" by Emily Dickinson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the title comes both from the physical door repeatedly slamming in Arthur's face and Merlin's struggles with opening the door, and from the metaphorical door being closed to Arthur buying the painting and being opened to Merlin getting a chance to be close to Arthur again. It's also poetic and balanced, kinda like two sides of the same coin.


	3. Bleeding Heart

_“But O heart! heart! heart!_

_O the bleeding drops of red,_

_Where on the deck my Captain lies,_

_Fallen cold and dead.”_

\--“O Captain, My Captain” by Walt Whitman

* * *

 

How exactly does a man tell his girlfriend that in order to get the anniversary gift he is sure she wants, she will have to go to a cottage in the woods and talk to the possibly crazy and definitely rude old man who lives there?

Arthur hadn’t figured that out yet.

In fact, he hadn’t even figured out whether he wanted to go through with the purchase at all yet; he couldn’t get that painting out of his head, and he suspected Guinevere couldn’t either, but did he really want to introduce his lovely girlfriend to that nutter? Then again, this was the first time he’d actually successfully found a “thoughtful,” “meaningful” gift in time for an anniversary, and it would be terrible for such a good idea and so much effort to go to waste.

He was still pondering his dilemma when Guinevere called him, and it was probably that dilemma (and the guilt that accompanied the idea of _not_ going through with it) that made him say yes to yet another trip to a museum to look at yet another painting that had captured her attention. It may have also been a vague hope that he could buy this one instead. It certainly wasn’t any sort of newfound love of art or desire to waste the better part of a perfectly good weekend day wandering around a museum.

No matter what his reason, he soon found himself in an art museum for the second time in as many weeks, looking for a special painting. Or thirteen paintings, actually, Guinevere had explained as they drove; a collection she’d seen online and _had_ to see in person, and really wanted Arthur to see too.

He knew why as soon as he rounded a corner and saw them, hanging in a long narrow gallery heading away to the right, bright splashes of color against plain white walls.

“Whoa,” he breathed.

“I know,” Guinevere said, equally breathless.

For a moment they stood and stared at the view.

Seven paintings hung in a row on the wall to the left, and another six on the nearer wall. The predominant color in every painting was red, in every possible shade from a deep burgundy to a bright crimson; every other color was somewhat muted.

It was undoubtedly the same artist as that first painting, in the other museum.

“He uses red in most of his paintings,” Guinevere said, “it’s kind of his signature. But in this collection, he consciously focused on it; he put it everywhere he could in each painting and emphasized it as much as possible. He said it was because this collection is about loss and ‘Every loss is a wound to the heart that never truly stops bleeding;’ so he called the collection ‘Bleeding Heart’ and painted each of them the color of blood. He even depicted actual blood in most of them.”

“Wow,” Arthur said. “That’s kind of sad.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Sad, but beautiful.”

“Melancholy,” he teased.

She smiled with her nose scrunched up and linked her left arm through his right, pulling him across to the first painting on the left wall. “I think we’re supposed to start here. Recognize anyone?”

He did. It was the same knight from the first painting, face still hidden as he walked away from the viewer, but with the same blood red cape and golden hair, the latter now clean and shining in the sunlight like a crown of fire. He was walking toward a vaguely familiar lake through a field of poppies; his red cape curling away to the right and revealing the same wound as before, high on his left side, this time with a thin stream of blood trailing down the bright sword on his belt and dripping into the deep footprints on the left side of the dirt path. The sky glowed red with the light of a sun that was either setting or rising, and the same light reflected off the choppy waters of the lake and the swollen bellies of the dark clouds looming on the horizon. Red lightning crackled dangerously in those fast approaching clouds. On the nearer shore, a red bird clung bravely to the bent branches of a tree.

The title displayed below the painting was a single question: _Why?_ Arthur could feel the heartbreak in it. Maybe a little anger too.

“It’s like the world is ending,” Guinevere whispered.

“Maybe that’s how he felt,” Arthur answered in the same hushed tone. “This person seems important somehow. There’s a sort of reverence to the whole thing,” he observed.

“He did specify in his instructions that if this collection were ever displayed in such a way that there was a place of honor, this piece should be in it,” Guinevere said. “It’s also the largest piece in the collection. Maybe the storm is metaphorical of the loss of someone so important; a storm of emotions—rage, sorrow—a storm of questions like ‘why?’”

Arthur nodded silently without taking his eyes off the painting. Maybe it was his vanity and resemblance to the person shown, but something about it called to him, as if it were speaking to him alone. Also, that lake looked really familiar somehow, but he just couldn’t place it.

“Poppies,” Guinevere pointed out quietly after another long moment. “They’re used for remembrance. He painted them in over half of the pieces in this collection.”

Arthur hummed acknowledgement.

“Are you ready to move on?” Guinevere asked a moment later with a slight tug on his arm.

He blinked and nodded. Looked down at her.

“I think you’ll recognize the next one too,” she said with an understanding smile.

He did recognize her and grinned down at Guinevere; it was the lady that looked like her, the knight’s lady from the first painting, wearing the same red dress as she had in that one. Like the knight next to her, she was walking away from the viewer; unlike him, she was indoors, in what appeared to be a large hall of some kind in a medieval castle. The white stone walls were hung with long scarlet banners each with a gold depiction of a dragon, brightly lit by the white candles that stood in tall stands before them. A carpet of red flower petals, flanked by red flowers of every kind interspersed with lavender, created a path that led to what appeared to be a throne in the murky shadows at the other end of the room. A shaft of sunlight from a window high on the right-hand wall fell directly on the lady, highlighting the crown nestled in her dark hair and the single poppy drooping from her right hand and glinting off of a ring she wore on one finger; the red gown she wore glowed brilliantly in the soft light. Below the crown, a sprig of lavender was woven into her hair.

The title beneath this one was _Our Flower_.

He bent down to whisper in Guinevere’s ear, “Do you think he was in love with her?”

She giggled, making him grin. “No,” she whispered back, “if he was in love with her, they would all be roses. There’s pretty much every red flower except roses there.”

“Good point,” he acknowledged. “Plus some purple ones.”

“Those are lavender,” Guinevere said. “I love lavender. And I think it’s a nice balance to all that red.”

“There is a lot of red,” he agreed. He pointed to the poppy in the lady’s hand. “What do you think about that? Do you think she’s carrying that for her dashing knight?”

She poked him in the ribs with her free hand, her other arm still linked through his. “I know you’re teasing me,” she grinned, “but I do think that’s why she’s carrying it. There are hardly any other poppies in this one, and that ring she’s wearing could be a wedding ring. Plus, the instructions the artist left said she should always be displayed in the spot closest to him.”

He hummed his interest and nodded. “Next?”

“Yes,” she said, then she grinned up at him and teased, “I don’t need to admire a painting that looks like me as long as _some_ people.”

“Well,” he exclaimed in mock offense. “Maybe I just appreciate _art_.”

“I thought you hated that nickname,” she shot back.

Arthur gaped for a moment. “Next painting,” he huffed indignantly, tugging her quickly in that direction.

The next painting was another blond knight, this one with longer hair, also walking away. Arthur looked around at the other paintings in the gallery and realized they all featured a person walking away.

“Why are they all walking away?” Arthur wondered.

“The collection is about loss,” Guinevere explained, “remember? They’re all walking away because they left him behind.”

“That’s pretty deep,” Arthur said. Guinevere rolled her eyes.

Smirking, Arthur turned back to study the painting. The knight in this one was walking fearlessly through the middle of a fierce battle with sword raised high and eyes fixed forward, surrounded by a sea of other knights in red capes fighting enemies in dark armor, faces on both sides obscured by helmets. The ground was muddied by the multitude of feet and the blood pooling in several places; in the wake of the central knight, a single cluster of poppies stood bravely upright. The only glimpse of sky was directly ahead, in the gap formed by the movements of the blond knight.

The title read _A Lion Among Men_.

“He looks ready to tear the enemy army apart with his bare hands,” Guinevere observed.

Arthur laughed. “Is it just me, or is he somehow halfway between running and walking with confidence?”

It was Guinevere’s turn to laugh as she nodded.

The next one was another knight, dark hair this time, short enough to show a deep tan on the back of his neck, striding through a forest with his red cape billowing behind him. The nearer half of the painting was green and alive, trees healthy and straight, with bright green grass and red flowers carpeting the forest floor between them; the right half was dead, bare tree branches bent and twisted like black claws reaching for the unaware knight and stretching toward the sky and the viewer, the forest floor beneath them devoid of life. Through the skeletal trees on the right, a lake glimmered in the distance. Nearer, between the path and the trees on either side, poppies bloomed thickly. Blood trailed down the very center of the worn path in a wavering, but unbroken line, bright in the glare of the sun.

It was called _Twice_.

They stared at it for a moment in silence, then Guinevere said, “I think the trees on the right are the same trees as on the left.”

“What?” Arthur asked.

“I think they’re the same trees,” she said again, “but dead. Like something happened to them to ruin them. Look, the spacing and sizes are the same on both sides.” She pointed to several spots to indicate what she saw, then pointed out several mirror trees and their similarities.

Looking at the painting more closely, Arthur had to agree. “That’s creepy,” he said.

Then came a fourth knight, tall and broad-shouldered, with hair cropped close to his head; his right arm, raised to hold a lit torch high in the air, was bare of chainmail, but he wore the same bright red cape as the others. The base of the flame burned scarlet and highlighted his cape in an undulating river of red. He was walking through an empty outdoor marketplace at night, and the light of his torch caught the contents of several stalls: red apples stacked neatly in one close-by on his left, red fabric hanging from the front post of another further on, red clay pots filling one on the right; the one closest on his right, receiving the most light, overflowed with poppies—one had fallen to the ground and it was at that single bloom that the large knight seemed to be looking. The light just barely glinted off a light spatter of what could only be blood in his wake.

The title below was _Silent Knight_.

“Another peaceful one,” Guinevere said. “I’m glad.”

“There’s still blood,” Arthur felt obliged to point out.

“But it’s not creepy like the last one,” she explained. As they started to move towards the next painting, she added wryly, “Or the next one.”

The next knight was also short-haired, though both hair and skin were much darker than the last, and he was walking through a dark room made of stone with his sword out and raised defensively. A giant fireplace filled the right-hand wall, but the flames had mostly died down to red embers; it was enough to light the opposite wall and the mix of tools and weaponry hung there, but not enough to drive away the shadows from the corners: dark, formless monsters lurked there, with glowing red eyes following the knight intently. A trail of blood marked his steps. A bowl of poppies to his right overflowed, spilling across the wide stone hearth and down to the ground, brushed by the edges of the bright red cape.

The title card said _Demons (I’m Sorry)_.

“His demons, do you think?” Guinevere asked. “Or is he one of the artist’s demons?”

“’I’m sorry’ makes him sound guilty, so I’m inclined to think the latter,” Arthur answered. “But it could also be both.”

She hummed an acknowledgement, sniffling a bit as they moved to the last painting on this side of the gallery.

Another long-haired knight—brown hair this time—walking through another forest. Red poppies spread into the distance on either side of the path, and bright red birds sang and sat their nests happily in the branches above them; here and there in the forest, apple trees could be seen heavily laden with red fruit, one such tree directly beside the path. His face was tipped up to the bright sunlight streaming through the green trees and he tossed a bright red apple into the air merrily with his right hand, his red cape flowing almost cheerfully behind him, despite the blood that soaked the path underneath it.

It was titled rather cheerfully, as well, compared to its predecessors: _To Happier Times_.

“Why do I get the impression he’s either laughing or whistling?” Arthur laughed.

“Or maybe singing,” Guinevere added, also laughing.

He eyed her. “Happy to have another nice one?”

“Yes,” she breathed in relief. She tugged him by their still linked arms. “Now come along, other side.”

The first painting they came to on the other side was not a knight. Actually, Arthur looked down the row and it didn’t seem like any of the paintings on this side were knights.

When he commented on this observation to Guinevere, she deadpanned, “You know that medieval men could be things other than knights, right?”

He laughed sarcastically.

And maybe a little too loudly; a middle-aged lady with glasses on the end of her nose and her hair in a severe bun sent him a pinched frown. He grinned crookedly and waved at her and she made a sound like a cat choking up a hairball and stalked away with her nose in the air. Museums could be fun after all, Arthur decided.

The man in this painting wore simple red robes, draped over stooped shoulders; he had long, thinning white hair and leaned heavily on a simple wooden cane. He stood at one end of a cluttered room, reaching for the worn wooden door with his free left hand; a set of stone steps stood against the wall at the right edge of the painting, a window partially showing above it through which the dying light of day came languidly, and a fireplace stood at the opposite edge, also dying out. A maze of tables filled the space between, and every available surface was littered with books and papers and vials of liquid and all kinds of equipment, shelves and racks of drying herbs on the walls and yet more plants hanging from the ceiling. The light from the fire and from the window mingled in the dusty air of the space and highlighted the red spines of books and red liquids in vials and red flowers among the plants and the worn red robes of the old man.

It was titled _More Than Wise (Home)_.

“That room looks . . . homey,” Guinevere commented.

Arthur had to agree. “It’s dusty, but there’s something . . . comfortable about it.”

The painting next to it was of a woman, also standing in a doorway—though this one was already opened—in a small house that appeared poor, but tidy. Her hair was greying, but the brown of it could still be seen, and she and her surroundings were cast in red in the dim, warm glow of a dying fire from somewhere out of frame. Her left hand, by her side, clutched a scrap of red fabric; her right rested on the door frame.

The title was simply _Mother_.

“She _looks_ motherly,” Arthur whispered, half to himself.

Guinevere didn’t answer.

Then came another man, his dark hair also beginning to grey, walking through an autumn wood ablaze with red, both above and below. Through a gap in the trees ahead of him, a red dragon wheeled in the sky; the man’s eyes were fixed on it. A few poppies bloomed at the base of some of the trees. Blood stained the dying grass where he walked.

The title below read, _Too Late_.

Neither Guinevere nor Arthur said anything, though they pulled each other closer—Arthur’s right arm wrapping around Guinevere’s shoulders as both of hers twined around his waist—and Arthur momentarily rested his cheek on top of her head. He thought he heard her sniffling again.

In the next, a young woman in a tattered red dress stood in a lake up to her knees, pale arms bare at her sides and pale legs peeking through the shredded skirt, long brown hair hanging loose down her back. On the opposite shore of the lake, at the foot of a mountain, stood a miniature farm surrounded by trees, a few cows grazing in one of the fields. On the nearer shore, strawberries and red roses grew wild. The entire scene was awash in the red of the sun just setting over the mountains in the distance and perfectly reflected in the glass-like stillness of the lake.

It was called _Too Soon_.

Guinevere finally broke the silence in a small, sad voice. “Is that blood around her in the water?”

Arthur looked closer; around the girl’s knees, the water was a darker red, but whether it was blood or a shadow, he couldn’t be sure. He told Guinevere as much.

“I think it’s blood,” she whispered sadly.

Arthur pretended not to notice as she brushed away tears as he gently tugged her toward the next.

This one was another male, but younger than any of the others, brown hair shaggy, but short, messy and dirty and touched with red in the light of the sun. He stood in the middle of a small village, full of squat little huts, poor and dirty but comfortable with a fence in the distance surrounding what looked like a garden. In his left hand, he clutched a bundle of poppies desperately, and in the other, a sword raised defensively. Over his left arm hung what appeared to be one of the red cloaks worn by the knights and another one, dark, bunched together and thrown over his elbow to trail down to his feet. Where the fabric pooled in the dirt, they turned to blood.

The title below was simple: _Thank You_.

“Did he save the artist’s life somehow, do you suppose?” Arthur asked.

Guinevere sniffled again and answered only with a wet little noise of non-committal.

“Why is there a sign between these ones and the last one?” Arthur wondered aloud.

Guinevere brightened as he’d hoped, clearing the tears from her voice. “Oh, I know this one. It’s part of the artist’s instructions that the last painting always be displayed with the rest of the collection, but separate. He referred to her as ‘the dark lady.’”

Well, dark was very accurate. Even before they reached the painting, Arthur could see that the red in this one was much darker than any shade of red in any of the previous paintings; the rest of the image was mostly black. The figure was a woman, her tangled black hair matching her dress in both color and texture. She was faintly illuminated by an ethereal silvery-white light of unknown origin, every line of her shapely figure traced in exquisite detail despite the lack of color, thrown in relief onto the darkness beyond her. Her pale hands and the pale slivers of skin that showed from under her hair nearly glowed. Despite the beauty of the figure, her stance radiated menace and grim determination—feet spread and planted, right hand flung forward with fingers splayed wide, shoulders back and ready to fight. Her left hand clenched a single rose in its fist, white petals stained with the same blood that dripped from its thorns and between slender fingers to the pool of blood that spread from her feet like a pathway before and behind. A single poppy peeked from under the edge of her dress, delicate petals partially crushed and drowning in the pool of blood. The rest of the image was a gaping, empty black.

_Guilt_ the card read.

Both Arthur and Guinevere shivered at the cold, naked hunger of the figure.

“There’s something sad about her,” Guinevere finally murmured. “Like she was innocent once; I think that’s what the rose means.” Then she added in a sad whisper, “And I think some of that blood is hers.” Arthur looked down at her as she continued to stare at the painting. “I feel like she’s lost somehow,” she said. Again, she wiped away tears.

Then she shook herself and exclaimed, “Oh, this whole display is just so heartbreaking! They say he actually knew these people and lost each of them and so he painted them to remember them.”

She was still crying a little as she spoke, so Arthur teased, “He knew a bunch of knights? In the 1800s?” He gestured broadly back to the painting two previous. “And a _dragon_?”

She pulled away a little and smacked his chest lightly, but chuckled, if a little wetly. “No, I don’t think he knew a _dragon_ , and the people probably weren’t actually knights and things, it’s probably an allegory or a metaphor or something that only he would really understand.”

“Ah, I see,” Arthur continued. “So he painted his dead friends as knights and dragon hunters and queens and whatever, except for this one here, whom he painted as a serial killer or something.”

She smacked him again, but laughed outright. “Let’s read the information here and then we can leave the museum like I know you’re dying to.”

“Finally,” Arthur joked. “I thought you were going to keep looking at these things forever.”

“Oh, hush,” Guinevere said. “You be quiet and I’ll read it out to you.” He sent her what he believed to be his most angelic smile. She rolled her eyes, but he could tell she was trying not to smile so he knew he had won that round.

She pulled him by the hand back to the informational placard and began reading in an over-the-top officious voice, but it gradually softened to her more natural compassionate tones as she read. It was much of the same information Guinevere had already told him about the title of the collection and why the artist had said he’d called it that and used mostly red and such and the instructions he’d left for displaying the paintings, plus the history of the collection and some general information on the artist. Once she’d finished reading it, Guinevere sighed. “I don’t know why, but I feel so connected to this artist, Arthur. It’s like he painted these pictures just for me.” She turned and looked across the gallery at the lady that looked like her with a thoughtful expression. “It’s almost like that _is_ me.”

Arthur followed her line of sight and studied the lady, then looked next to her at the knight that looked like him and made a decision. “Guinevere, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” He looked to be sure that he had her attention and continued, “It’s about that other painting, the first one we saw two weeks ago.” She nodded. “I wanted to buy it for you for our anniversary.” She gasped and covered her mouth in surprise and he was horrified to see that she was crying again. But then he saw the smile behind her hand and realized they were probably happy tears; girls were inclined to do that sometimes. He continued, “I tracked down the owner. It’s this old man who lives way out in the middle of nowhere and he refuses to sell it to me without meeting you first.”

“Oh, I’d love to meet him,” she said immediately.

“Guinevere,” Arthur warned, “he’s a little cr—“ she shot him a look—“different.”

“That doesn’t matter, Arthur. I’d be really interested in meeting the owner of the painting anyway, and I would absolutely love to have the painting as an anniversary present. That’s such a thoughtful gift.” Outwardly, Arthur simply smiled; inwardly, he cheered— _I knew it_. “Our anniversary is coming up soon, too.” _Yes!_ “I’m so proud of you for remembering!” Wow, he was really doing well with this.

Then she asked, “What’s his name?”

Well, there went that.

Sheepish, he tried to dodge the question. “What’s whose name, darling?” he asked with an innocent smile. She shook her head fondly. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Well, then,” she decided. “I’d better meet the owner.”

* * *

 

_“Oh my friends, my friends, forgive me_

_That I live and you are gone;_

_There’s a grief that can’t be spoken,_

_There’s a pain goes on and on.”_

\--“Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” from _Les Miserables_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this story updates at a ridiculously slow pace and I'm sorry, but rest assured that it is planned out all the way through Arthur and Gwen actually remembering things. I have other priorities at the moment and this story likes to take forever to reach the completion of each chapter. Hopefully it's worth the wait (it makes me get all teary anyway).


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